Rabbit and Shadow
Who are you?
Rabbit is looking at shadow and shadow is looking at me.
Shadow’s eye appears to recognize me.
Seems to be an age-old look. As if from a Cretian grave.
At least it’s a grave glance that shadow is giving me here. Don’t you think?
Shadow lends gravity to rabbit’s zigzag leaps…
…and makes me look ahead into the future.
If I am not for myself, who will be for me?
And if I am only for myself, what am I?
And if not now, when?
“… I felt there was a much deeper connection with the people I photographed. It became a personal thing to me first, then it became a way of telling a story about somebody who nobody knows. You will be the one bringing the person forward, bringing the story forward.” Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe
Somebody who nobody knows
You mark your subdued presence with two red buoys. Easily, they float on muddied canal waters as if you have just snatched them from a balloon vendor and fixed them to your waist belt before you took a dive. Do they imitate your secret wanderings? Or are they just tracking your underwater operations?
Watching your giant breathing bubbles I tend to imagine you as an anomally big city surgeon – which scares me.
I
Im Personalgeschäft lehrten zwei Phänomene die Hamburger Schulleiterinnen und Schulleiter ab 2010 das Fürchten: ein Stellenüberhang mit dem Namen „Lehrerberg“ und ein Generationswechsel, der sich als „Pensionierungswelle“ ausgab. In einer Kleinen Anfrage sorgte sich die SPD Fraktion darum, ob man für alle die Lehrer und Lehrerinnen, die in absehbarer Zeit in den Ruhestand treten würden, überhaupt genügend junge und gut ausgebildete Bewerber finden werde. In der Tat, dieser Generationswechsel in der Hamburger Lehrerschaft erwies sich als enorme Herausforderung im Personalgeschäft. Aber Jahr um Jahr wurde das Kollegium in der eigenen Schule jünger, der „Berg“ schrumpfte zum Hügel und, obwohl man sich selbst nicht wirklich als Teil der „Welle“ wahrgenommen hatte, wurde man bereits des Öfteren gefragt, wann man denn selbst „dran sei“. Wie bitte? Was für eine Zumutung! Mitten aus einem ereignisreichen Leben will man dich in einen Zustand der ewigen Ruhe befördern? Denn so verheißt es ja das offizielle Etikett ‘Ruhestand‘ für all jene, die sich jenseits des sechzigsten Lebensjahrs befinden, also auch für DICH! Ruhestand – das entspricht so gar nicht deiner ‚Work Ethic‘, mit der es nach 41 Berufsjahren plötzlich vorbei sein soll. Da hilft es auch nicht, wenn die 15-20 Jahre jüngeren Arbeitskollegen den Ruheständlern in spe einen munteren „Unruhestand“ wünschen und zum Abschied einen Campingstuhl überreichen oder einen Kultur- und Wanderatlas für die deutschen Mittelgebirge. An einem 31. Januar ist es schließlich auch für dich soweit, du packst nach einer wunderbaren Abschiedsfeier die freundlichen Gaben von Eltern, Schülern und Kollegium zusammen und machst die Schultür hinter dir zu: Es ist vollbracht! Vor dir liegt der Ruhestand, dieser unbekannte Zustand, aus dem es kein Zurück gibt.
II
In ihrem Bericht „A Journey through Retirement” (2021) verweist die Autorin Anna Rappaport auf mehre extensive sozialwissenschaftliche Studien von Versicherungsexperten, wonach sich bei Ruheständlern bzw. Ruheständlerinnen drei Phasen herausschälen: 1. Phase: Go-go, 2. Phase: Slow-go und 3. Phase: No-go. (1 ) Die erste Erkenntnis, dass nämlich der Übergang in den ‚Ruhestand‘ die Wahrnehmung des eigenen unausweichlichen Alterungsprozesses vertieft, ist evident. Dass aber das eigene Leben durchaus nicht stehen bleibt und schon gar nicht in einem „Zustand“ verharrt, fand ich sehr treffend mit der Bezeichnung „Go-go“ zum Ausdruck gebracht, denn Bewegung und Aufbruch kennzeichnen viel eher den Weg in die Zeit nach dem Arbeitsleben. Am ersten Tag des Ruhestands ist man – oh Wunder- mental und körperlich vollständig unverändert und kann loslegen: Go! Und das hieß für mich genau das, was es auch für die vielen kanadischen und US-amerikanischen Ruheständler aus der oben erwähnten Studie hieß: „ … pursuing a dream that was not possible before retirement.“ Ich wollte wandern (in Bayern), schreiben (einen Blog), Sport intensivieren (Ruderverein) und ehrenamtlich tätig werden (Flüchtlingshilfe). Bei den nächtlichen Diensten für gestrandete syrische Flüchtlinge, die in den Räumen der Caritas am Mariendom ein Nachtlager, Verpflegung, und Fürsorge fanden, fragte ich mich, wie all diese heimatlosen Erwachsenen jemals die Sprache ihres Aufnahmelandes erlernen sollten. Ich selbst hatte Mühe, mir wenigstens 10 arabische Wörter für die notwendigsten Dinge zu merken.
III
Aus diesen eindrücklichen Erlebnissen erwuchs mein Wunsch, in der Erwachsenenbildung tätig zu werden, und so landete ich über Bekannte beim Bereich Sprache und Integration der Grone- Stiftung. Nachdem ich mich schriftlich mit Lebenslauf und Leistungsnachweisen beworben hatte, dann auch zügig die Lehrbewilligung vom BAMF erhalten und in einer Grundschule in 1. und 2. Klassen hospitiert hatte, stand ich an einem freundlichen Novembermorgen vor „meinem“ Alphabetisierungskurs: 14 Männer und Frauen im Alter von 23-63 Jahren aus Eritrea, dem Irak und Syrien. Keiner von ihnen beherrschte die lateinische Schrift, keiner konnte Deutsch sprechen oder verstehen. Vor ihnen die Lehrerin, die von ihren 10 Wörtern Arabisch nur noch Sukran – Danke behalten hatte. Wir haben uns sehr neugierig beäugt und beiderseitig zeigte sich freudiges Interesse, wie das wohl gehen würde mit uns und der deutschen Sprache. In diesem Deutschkurs auf dem langen Weg bis zur ihrer Sprachprüfung Niveau A2/B1 „meine Lehrerin“ zu sein, gehört zu meinen schönsten Unterrichtserfahrungen – und das im Ruhestand!
IV.
Wie ich in der Studie nachlesen konnte, kommt es häufig vor, dass Ruheständler sich in bezahlten oder auch unbezahlten Beschäftigungen in Teilzeit engagieren. Sie greifen dabei auf Kompetenzen (“skills“) aus ihrem Arbeitsleben zurück, erschließen sich aber auch gerne neue Gebiete. Dieses Erlernen von etwas Neuem, welches an die eigene Professionalität andocken kann, ist nicht nur persönliche Bereicherung, sondern eröffnet auch ungeahnte Perspektiven, die man unter den strikten Zeitvorgaben des Berufslebens nicht entdecken konnte. In meiner „Go-go“- Phase habe dagegen ICH die Zeithoheit über das, was ich anpacken und umsetzen will – ein Zustand, den ich nicht mehr missen möchte. Also habe ich Frieden geschlossen mit meinem Ruhestand. Allerdings finde ich kaum Zeit, weiter über „Slow[1]Go“ und „No-Go“ nachzudenken. Warum auch?!
(1) Anna Rappaport. The Journey through Retirement. PDF unter www.soa.or
Der Artikel erschien in der Zeitschrift Hamburg Macht Schule 01/2022 (www.hamburg.de/bsb/hamburg-macht-schule)
Autumn sunlight is illuminating a spectacle of decay. In spring and summer bumblebees and larks sang along with the bright blossoms in any shade of colour. But by now all have left the gardens, parks and orchards. There is no singing in autumn. The reds and yellows of foliage are silent ones.
Birds are gathering for their flight southwards and only the crows’ croaking bids them good-bye. Leaves have metamorphed into bodiless forms and hover as colourful spheric lights in the branches . You’re gazing at them, trying to hold on to these pretty images. Still, they only seem to be waiting for the split-second to float down and decay on the wet earth. Later, rain clashes with a harsh clang against the barrenness of wood.
Who is left to sing the autumn opera of oranges, yellows and reds before they turn into a brownish mesh along the roads and in the paths?
Autumn is the time of separation, a season of absolutely no return. Here and there, a poet will lament his many losses. From his window, he will stare for long hours at the shiny black birds which overnight have assembled in great numbers on the bare branches of the old lime tree.
“I was born in September, and love it best of all the months. There is no heat, no hurry, no thirst and weariness in corn harvest as there is in the hay. If the season is late, as is usual with us, then mid-September sees the corn still standing in stook. The mornings come slowly. The earth is like a woman married and fading; she does not leap up with a laugh for the first fresh kiss of dawn, but slowly, quietly, unexpectantly lies watching the waking of each new day. The blue mist, like memory of a summer gone, never goes from the wooded hill, and only at noon creeps from the near hedges. There is no bird to put a song in the throat of morning; only the crow’s voice speaks during the day. Perhaps there is the regular hush of the scythe – even the fretful jar of a mowing machine. But next day, in the morning, all is still again. “
D.H. Lawrence, The White Peacock (1911)
Winter Loneliness
The early sunset of winter inflames the sky like a war photography. Danger lingers but the fake spectacle quickly fades into a dull nightfall. The rest of daylight is being reflected by the dark windows of the house upon a hill. Nobody at home, nowhere. Nothing is behind the hostile shimmer but the ghosts of the day.
A Rocky Riverbed
The girl’s mother was a native of the Northern realms where the ocean wasn’t far and seagulls now and then shrieked in the sky. She had followed a butcher from a small town in the mountainous South, married quickly and submitted herself to his no-nonsense apprentice training in the messy business about meat, ham and sausages. She was proud to be his assistant in a prospering butcher shop, which also offered hearty dishes for regional workers and drivers-by at lunchtime. When her first child was a chubby boy, she was quietly accepted in the community even though she failed to adapt to the regional manner of speaking. Things changed with her second child, a fragile girl, behind in growth for some years and just as much retarded that you couldn’t conceal it from the public. The girl grew up to be a blue-eyed teenager who behaved reasonably normal and was friendly against everybody. From the age of twelve on the girl developed an intense need to walk the paths of the nearby mountain valley. She used to stop for long minutes at her favourite tree stretching out her arms for the strong trunk longingly. Her mother loved to see her happy in nature and she didn’t intervene, not even when her daughter turned her cravings to the mountain brook which gushed down over a rocky riverbed into the valley. There, she sat near a wooden bridge where the brook ran through the green meadows. On sunny days she could sit for hours and babble unintelligibly to the sound of the water. Tourists who would come along, crossing the bridge, were mesmerized by her extraordinary behaviour and the townspeople started whispering. One early summer evening, after he had just closed the shop, the butcher decided to fetch her and told his wife so. Don’t be too harsh with her, she pleaded. When he approached his daughter, who was standing at the creek in the warm evening light, she looked somewhat attractive to him, in a fairy-tale way, he thought. He walked up, embraced her and asked her to lean with her back against him. The valley was motionless. He told her about the water, the rocks and the mountains. He spoke into her neck of the mighty master of the mountain waters who resided in the grey pinnacles high above the valley. When the shadows got deeper he drew her into the riverbed and made her look at the grim, stony face of a mountain troll which protruded darkly from the riverbed. She was scared and wanted to run from the troll, but he stood behind her and held her with both arms like in a bench clamp. She went silent and listened to his words. The water troll would jump up from the riverbed and go for her. He would do things to her. Only when the moon was up in the star-covered sky did he let her go, took her by the hand and led her home. From then on she stayed in the house, learned to do some needle work and quit school for good. Winter came and spring, and nobody asked for her.
Red-roped Eternity
He had parked his black, high-tuned motorbike neatly in the parking lot at the foot of the mountain which had looked to him like Swiss Matterhorn from afar. Even though its size had diminished the nearer he had got, he was determined to interrupt his ride to the flatlands and climb the grey, rocky peak. He kind of rushed up the first 700 metres of altitude – as if he had to purchase some last-minute supplies – not even noticing the sweat which ran down his back and dripped from his constantly creased forehead. His speeding heartbeat felt like rock drums in his chest. When he entered the rope-lined stretch on the narrow climbing ridge, his sight was impaired. He concentrated on the red rope and the rocky path which was bulbing toward him as if under a magnifying glass. When the stone struck him, he all of a sudden saw everything clearly in a single snapshot: The thick, red rope swinging slightly above him, the rugged, dirty rock with its myriads of cracks and even some fresh green leaves among the eternal moss of emptiness. He sucked in the razor-sharp air and knew that the stone had dropped from the white skies above him.
Somewhere – Kurdistan!
Nations and Names
30 million people make the Kurds the fourth-largest ethnic group in the Middle East. But neither have they ever had a landlocked state nor have they ever been unified in their aim of nationbuilding. If you grow up being Kurdish you’ll belong to some other nation anyway. A presumptive state Kurdistan would turn out to be a nation of abandoned locals from a variety of time-honoured, dignified nations whose languages they speak like their mother tongue, whose traditions and collective memories they share and whose political ups and downs are – seamlessly – interwoven with themselves and their families.
Coming from the mostly Kurdish city of Qamishly, e.g., which is embedded in the border triangle of Syria, Iraq and Turkey, you know by experience that Kurdish culture exists in your community but that just the same this community exists in the national context of Syria. That’s what everybody from your community has been discussing passionately since the going has got tough, and which eventually means that you’ll either be squashed by the grindstones of your country’s upheavals or escape to somewhere else, namely the EU, where you are entirely displaced and doubly homeless. You have lost your Kurdish community which has been torn apart into hostile factions, and, moreover, you can no longer share and add to your nation’s history.
Kurdish communities – somewhere
Here you are now. You are nearly 24 , unmarried, your parents have died early, you observe religious rules, treasure fond boyhood memories of the Libanon, smoke sheesha and your eventful life has been brought to a sickening standstill. You speak Arabic, Kurdish and Turkish but that doesn’t lead you anywhere.
Where are you from? Tired of answering this frequently asked question about your nationality you draw out the country of Kurdistan on cardboard and take pleasure in the graceful borders of this new-born nation. “My name is Nader. I am from Kurdistan and a local of Qamishly”, you reply to the visitor, “let me tell you something about my homeland”.
Kurdistan – out of nowhere
messy retrospectacles 